


The Wednesday Meeting

by Lemur710



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, M/M, but none significant enough to put in those tags, other pairings mentioned in passing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 03:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemur710/pseuds/Lemur710
Summary: Madam Pince sees more than everyone thinks.





	The Wednesday Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> I unearthed this super-old fic of mine (one of the first I wrote) and thought it could be fun to share. I might be wrong. Ha!
> 
> Old note from when I originally wrote this... "This idea came to me after I realized how many HP fics from all eras have some flirting, snogging, or outright shagging happening in the Hogwarts library, right under the nose of Madam Pince."

For all the recent memory of living students, present and past, and faculty come and gone, the Hogwarts library closed one full hour early every Wednesday evening. Madam Pince would shuffle out, cane in hand and wand at the ready, lock the large oak doors with a massive iron key and then set so many wards that students would feel a tingle if they walked within three feet of even the thought of going to the library. Most students would scuttle away, back to the safety of their dormitories, but a brash few with a scroll due the next morning would stamp their feet and scream of unfairness. They, too, scattered quickly enough when Madam Pince emerged with her shawl about her hunched shoulders and a sharp eye that rivaled – perhaps even surpassed – Argus Filch’s for sheer threat and meanness. 

It was always a strange sight to see the old woman outside the rows of tomes and parchment and as she passed, the students would watch her, perhaps expecting her to vanish, fly, or turn into a book herself and thump to the ground. Nothing of the sort happened, of course, so they watched until the stuttered clack of her uneven legs ceased to amuse them and they ran off to more lasting diversions.

Pince had a standing engagement each Wednesday night, an engagement she’d had for nearly the entire seventy years she’d been Hogwarts primary librarian. It could be said it was required of her, a stipulation of her contract, as it were.

In Pince’s opinion, the trend had become too liberal with texts. Often, librarians let students take ancient and prized tomes to their dormitories to be roughed up, tossed about and stuffed into bookbags with clothing reeking of sweat and pumpkin juice. Naturally, any decent librarian knew this to be an outrage and a disgusting misuse of knowledge, so when he’d first taken the position of Headmaster, Pince had tried more often than once to convince Dumbledore to make the library off-limits to students or at the very least enforce rules that a student may look at only one book at a time under Pince’s own supervision. Dumbledore proved to be of the liberal sort, however, and insisted that the pupils needed the books. But because Pince was stubborn, Dumbledore had been forced to find a compromise. He allowed her to establish a Restricted Section and to charm a few of the rarer texts to sting anyone who tried to leave with them (rare texts and the collection of Lockhart rubbish that kept disappearing off the shelves into adoring girlish hands) and in exchange, Pince had to come for a very special meeting every Wednesday night, without fail. Pince had loyally done so every single week, every single year since, with exceptions only falling during the summer break.

Upon reaching the golden phoenix, Madam Pince muttered “giggling gumdrops” and stepped forward to be lifted upwards into the headmaster’s office.

“Ah! Irma.” Dumbledore smiled gently, just as he set the steaming teapot down on the small, round table by the fire. Soft velvet chairs rested on opposite sides and Pince sank gratefully into one. She flexed her aching shoulders.

“Good evening, Dumbledore.” She let out a rattling cough and dabbed at her mouth with her lacy handkerchief. “I’m surprised you still wanted to meet, thought you might be too busy with this Black business.” 

Pince had long ago adopted the habit of referring to everyone by their last name as the students so often did, though she’d not admit to the origin. Most often, though, she didn’t bother with names at all when “boy” and “girl” worked well enough. “Don’t think of coming in here with those muddy feet, boy!” and “Finish your tea at tea time, girl!” Years moved slowly for Pince, and they all blended together, one generation of students bleeding into the next. Longbottoms, Malfoys, Potters and Weasleys leaving; Longbottoms, Malfoys, Potters and Weasleys returning. Children who so resembled their parents that when Pince passed her reflection in a glass display case, she wondered who the old woman was.

“I hold our little chats in high value, Irma.” Dumbledore’s face glimmered with a smile. “And it is perhaps more important than ever for me to know where my students’ hearts lie. Please, do tell me we have hearts fluttering in the halls of Hogwarts.”

“Well.” Pince set down her cup. In an instant, she had to change the sentence out of her mouth; she had concerns on her mind, but they would wait till later, or perhaps not be spoken at all. “I have quite a discovery for you this evening, Headmaster,” she began, and searched her mind for a suitable revelation to share. One presented itself quickly. “That young Diggory fellow is still catching lots of eyes, but one’s caught him and you’ll never guess who. Go on, try. Try to guess, Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore smiled slightly, but his eyes were alive with joy and eagerness. “Miss Rendall?”

“No.”

“Miss McGregor?”

“No.”

“It wouldn’t be Miss Fehr.”

“No, indeed! That spoiled little thing. I should hope Diggory has more sense than that.” Pince folded her withered hands smugly across her lap and snorted once or twice to stop the grin from finding its way to her face. She peered across the table at her headmaster, who beamed back at her.

“I admit defeat, Irma. Who has caught Mr. Diggory’s fancy?”

“Wood!” Pince declared with a cackle.

“Oliver Wood?” Dumbledore’s eyes brightened in surprise.

“Yes! That messy boy from Gryffindor who’s always tracking in mud from the pitch. Caught Diggory staring at him when I’d allowed him a look at a rare copy of Korenwald’s Unseeables and Unknowables, year 1097, original binding. I almost took it from him; drool is murder on ancient parchment.”

Dumbledore chuckled cheerfully. “Oliver Wood, of course.” His smile seemed a wild, marvelous thing. “They have a great deal in common. Oh, that will be a fun one to watch.”

Pince nodded noncommittally. More than once this year, she’d objected to simply being expected to be Dumbledore’s spy in his uncommon fascination with the romantic entanglements of Hogwarts, but the fresh stinging charms tingling on her books downstairs made her somewhat more tolerant tonight.

“Any hope that Oliver will notice him back?” Dumbledore asked.

“Probably.” Pince shrugged. “I don’t think he looks at all those sport books just because he admires a good broomstick.”

Abruptly, Dumbledore clapped his long hands together and let out a startling guffaw. “Oh, this is delightful. What wonderful news! And so early in our year. This bodes well, I think, Irma.” He winked a glimmering eye. Pince humphed. “What else have you seen, my dear? Any old favorites?”

Pince lifted a lemon biscuit and took a nibbling bite; they were better than last week’s stale gingerbread. Her thoughts darted again to issues that pressed her these days, but she brushed them aside and brushed the crumbs off her flowered dress in one motion. “Granger and that youngest Weasley boy are still waltzing,” she said. “They got in a fight – quite a row in the Potions section; I had to banish them for the day. Next morning, the girl’s back in first thing compiling notes for a class I know she doesn’t have.”

“Ah, yes. Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley. Rather reminiscent of another pair, don’t you think? Remember the fights those two got into?”

Pince nodded her head sharply, not pleased with the memory.

“Think perhaps it’s the ginger hair?” Dumbledore asked coyly.

Pince eyed him through the sparse loose strands from her own formerly ginger hair. “I think not,” she said. “I would blame the foolishness of young men. If one thing never changes... The girls are dodgy, too, though, of course, but at least they can admit when they like a fellow. The boys spend all their days saying they don’t like a girl and then wonder why she gets so mad at him!”

“Ah, I think you’ve gotten more astute in the intervening years, Irma.”

“Hmph.” 

“What has happened with Patil and Jacobs?”

“It’s off,” Pince said. “Patil’s been making eyes at Finnigan these days, though I don’t suspect that’ll last. She’s a flighty one, she is. The whole lot of them are at that age.”

Dumbledore reached for his tea with a delicate hand and his gaze weighed heavily upon Pince. She despised that habit of his of staring right through a person; she knew full well he knew she had been biting her tongue since she’d arrived.

“The other Potter boy is getting attention now, you might like to know.” She snatched up another lemon biscuit. “He doesn’t seem to notice it, though, and that’s well enough because he’s a menace. A book spends one hour with him and it comes back coated with sugar, or blood, or potions, or some other such substance that’s a crime against fine parchment everywhere. I tell you, Dumbledore,” she spat angrily, “I’ve a mind to charm his books to shoot all manner of disgusting fluids on _him_ next time he mistreats them, favorite of yours or not!”

Dumbledore watched her with exceeding patience as her ire colored her cheeks. She wanted to slap him for it, or perhaps crush a lemon biscuit against his serenely understanding nose.

“What’s troubling you, Irma?” he said kindly. “You’re out of sorts this evening.”

Pince huffed against her anger. “Oh, ‘out of sorts’; utter rubbish! I’m furious, you codger, and you know it!”

A smirk ticked at Dumbledore’s lips. “Please elaborate.”

“It’s this Sirius Black business. I remember things and it’s not right, Dumbledore, it’s just not.”

“What’s not right?”

“Stuff and rubbish.” Pince ground a crumb to dust between her skinny fingers. “You have that Lupin boy here.”

“Yes.” Dumbledore nodded. “Remus Lupin is a very capable instructor and he excels at Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was fortuitous that he was available. I have difficulty keeping that position filled...”

“Fortuitous! Humph. It’s – it’s!”

“What is it, dear?”

Pince shifted irritably in her seat, pulling most all her weight onto one bony hip. She narrowed her eyes at Dumbledore over the pinkish fuzz of the thick shawl about her shoulders. “Fate,” she spat. She fidgeted again, alternating her weight to the other hip. “When that Lupin boy was in school, he stayed late in the library with me for almost six months straight,” Pince said. “He even wore me down to let him help reshelf the books and you know how I feel about letting students do that. Wore me down just by being there. If I didn’t let him help, he would stand beside me and watch and he’d mouth all my spells to practice ‘em. He was a bother and a pest; I almost hexed him out of the room. But he got quiet enough when I let him help, so I did. Nuisance. This was two decades ago now; must have been in his fifth or sixth year. There must have been some great todo in his life because I couldn’t figure what a fellow his age – decent looking boy, too, mind you, despite the scars and all – I couldn’t figure why he’d want to be with an old witch like me and not with his mates.”

Color rose high in Dumbledore’s cheeks, but he merely nodded. His eyes shone gravely, all his usual mirth replaced by concern and earnestness. “And what happened?” he asked, in a voice so gentle she almost didn’t hear.

“It must have been about two, three months in, Black starts showing up. I don’t know who taught who, but he did the same thing to poor Lupin: he wore him down just by being there. He just stood there looking at him for _days_. Then, they both started shelving for me.” She let out a furious huff and budged in her seat. Her skeletal hands clenched the wooden armrests as if she could have strangled both boys right now even after all these years. “Well, I couldn’t stand it. Young men standing about in silence doing work they’re not asked to do, that I’m perfectly capable of doing and have been doing for years before they were even born! But just the same, I let them because they didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon and I couldn’t stomach it; they got so silent and stood there watching if I didn’t let them work. Boys make heavier silences than girls, Dumbledore. Then, one day, after weeks of these – these – usurpers doing _my_ job, they suddenly stop coming in.” Pince took a rough swallow of her tea and her thoughts jolted back to that lone evening spent glancing at the clock and wondering what had become of her sullen companions. Had she not be so averse to the concept, she might have acknowledged the feeling she’d had as having grown comfortable to someone’s presence and missing it when it was gone. “Saw ‘em again the next day and you know what – ” She took another sip of tea, worrying her tongue over the lukewarm liquid and working to free from her mouth a secret she’d kept for nigh on twenty years. “Next day, they’re sitting there at a study table by the Arithmancy section, quiet as flowers and their feet are touching under the table. Now, I know, I know, that doesn’t sound like much.” She waved her hands, batting away the protests that Dumbledore never uttered. “But I know it when I see it and that was it.”

“That was what, my dear?”

“Love, you old coot.” Pince grumbled and untucked her shawl from around her neck where the wool had started to itch with the fire’s heat. “A man who’s been living as long as you have ought to know better than to ask such a silly question. I have been a witness to these childish romantic dealings you prize for much longer than is my share and if I didn’t have such loyalty to those books, I’d have left years ago! But I know you wouldn’t be able to find someone to take care like I do; the idiot would probably let the kids bring pumpkin juice into the Restricted Section, ruin all of Salazar’s original scrolls! Now, I’ve seen a fair bit of liking in my days and a lot of lust, since these daft students of yours don’t seem to notice that those rows in the back they think are so secret don’t have a spot of dust. I may be tidy, but I’m not that tidy – a bit of dust is good for the oldest books. You think they might take a glance down for footprints before throwing off their robes, but no, that would take too much time I suppose. Damned, hormonal fools.”

She refilled her tea, dropped another cube of sugar into her teacup with a gentle plink, and when she spoke again, her voice was demure, even polite, though it rested uneasily on her usually harsh tones. “Thank you for pointing me toward those impervious spells for the books in those rows, Headmaster. I might never have said that before, but I am grateful, you should know. Saved a lot of valuable material from being drowned and ruined in hormones.

“Now, as I was saying, Lupin and Black,” she continued, her usually shrill tone returning. “There was liking and, well, I don’t like to talk about it, but later there was lust, too, but love, Dumbledore. That’s what I saw there. I have a heart, you know. I may not like to listen to every fool thing it says like some people do, but I’ve got one and I know what I saw there. Those two boys – young men – well, love, sir. That’s what it was. Thought you should know, what with events being as they are.”

Dumbledore sat silent for a long moment and Pince set to contentedly drinking her tea. She was used to the headmaster’s silence and even if she weren’t, she never much cared if her companions spoke or not; it was their will either way; and the tea was quite fine as always. She’d spoken her piece after all these years; that was enough.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me before?” Dumbledore said at last.

Pince shrugged as best she could with her sore back. “I can’t say. Suppose I felt for the boy.”

Dumbledore raised one bushy brow. “Why, Irma – ”

Pince interrupted him with a snort. “Don’t make more of this than there is, Dumbledore. Most of the children here are messy, loud, inconsiderate animals and get down to it, Lupin’s probably no different. I just think he’s had it hard and it’s not altogether fair, if you ask me. If he’s a brat, well, he has more reason than the others, hasn’t he? He’s not been given everything his whole life. It’s tough for a lad, being what he is.” Pince trained her spectacled eyes on the steaming tea in her hands. “He deserved something good and I didn’t feel quite right talking about it. Felt maybe like taking it away from him, his secret. But things being what they are now, I thought you should know. Black may be good for nothing now, but for a time I reckon he was good for Lupin.”

Dumbledore smiled. “I thank you for telling me, Irma. I am most gratified.”

Pince nodded and shifted awkwardly in her seat. The soft velvet had grown uncomfortable beneath her old bones and so she stood with a creak and a groan. She walked from the headmaster without a word.

But Pince stopped at the door, her thin mouth working over the thoughts in her mind, her tongue worrying over whether or not to give them voice. This evening’s unnatural loquaciousness had made her bold. “Sir?” she said finally, turning back to the headmaster who sat at his desk with a grave expression and a handful of softly giggling gumdrops. “I know Black is after the other Potter boy, but I was – do you think he’ll try to somehow come after Lupin?” At that moment, even Pince couldn’t have been sure if she feared physical injury or emotional, a broken arm or a broken heart.

“I don’t know.” Dumbledore’s voice rasped. “But Remus can care for himself, I believe. He’s likely given this possibility thought for the last twelve years. In many ways, he might be more prepared than the rest of us.”

Pince nodded and gave a non-committal murmur as she walked out the door.

“Next week, Irma. Until then.”

Pince made her way back down the corridors, tucking her shawl tighter around her in a shiver. She wasn’t prone to fancy, so Pince _knew_ it was the Dementors who brought the unfamiliar chills to the halls of Hogwarts. They hovered overhead all hours, a foul, cold wind blowing about them. Already her library echoed with the hideous, wet sneezes of students too fool to stay away when they ailed. Pince grumbled outloud at the thought and several pupils stepped out of her way, eyes wide in frightened fascination. She wasn’t one to be scared of Dementors. Her own Patronus was plenty strong enough and after it was all over, the Ministry would regret ever letting a Dementor near Irma Pince. But occasionally, in her quiet moments, she wondered how good it was to have such loathsome, depressing creatures around spirited children and their less spirited professors. Lupin, for one, didn’t look as though he could withstand a deliberate Dementor attack; he looked like a man who’d already faced down an army of them. Pince’s thin lips tightened into a line, the edges turned down till she most strongly resembled a terribly disgruntled snapping turtle. Life was full of injustices, she decided.

She’d recognized Lupin the first time he’d come in to do a bit of research before starting his classes and she wasn’t pleased with what the years had done to him. The scars had gotten worse, the paleness, the sad eyes. Still a handsome man, of course, but life had been unfair. She wondered sometimes what he thought to have Black on the loose again. She supposed that, in a hard life, even solace from a murderer might be a nice thing to have.

In Pince’s opinion, it would be better to let Black have the other Potter boy, let him kill him if that’s what he intended; hasten the dark times and the eventual – equally inevitable – overthrow would come all the sooner. The panic engendered by Voldemort’s first rise and fall didn’t result in educated defense against such horrors happening again, but instead in fearful accusation and paranoia that made repetition inevitable. If Voldemort himself didn’t return, it would be some other dark wizard and everyone would be so focused on each other, on surrounding schools with dark creatures, that their new overlord would slip in easily, and quietly take their free will from them while they all looked the other way. In the end, Pince wondered how vital Black really was in the scheme; the one visible leak in a sinking ship.

Pince slipped back through her wards, unlocked the large oak doors, and disappeared into the beloved cocoon of her library. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of aging paper and dried leather. Her footsteps echoed in the empty chamber. This was her library at its best when the students were far away sleeping and not mucking the collection with their sticky fingerprints.

She stepped behind the counter, eyeing the tables stacked with books not replaced by the pupils before she left. She sighed and shuffled back over to them. As she read the first spine, she felt a presence at the innermost ward and then heard a polite knock at the door. No student could have gotten that close; warily and grumpily, she stomped back over. Pulling the door open and allowing the corridor’s light in in a sliver, she looked out and up to see Professor Lupin. “It’s after hours,” she growled. “You have to be here a fair bit longer to earn special rights to the library, boy.”

“I know, Madam Pince, and I would not ask you to bend your rules. I was heading to bed and, well, I found myself wondering if you might need a hand shelving your books tonight.” He smiled warmly and a bit awkwardly, the expression teetering on his scarred face. 

Pince inspected him for a long moment with her crow’s eyes narrowed. Then, with a grunt, she opened the door and let him in.


End file.
